Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

“Shut up,” Vara said.

  There was the silence of a fresh snow falling even as the temperature grew colder as they crossed the bridge. Cyrus ran a hand over the railing of the bridge and stared down into the fresh white powder below. He suspected it was as deep as the pond in the Sanctuary garden—only a few feet at most—but it was covered over with snow so thick he could not tell.

  “So,” Vaste said, creeping up next to Cyrus, “a walk in the woods alone with Vara.”

  Cyrus felt a strain inside and gave him a sidelong look to match it. “What of it?”

  “Was it everything you hoped for?”

  Cyrus looked past Vaste to Vara, who, he was sure, was pretending to take no notice of their conversation. She had not worn her helm on the excursion, and he could see her ears were red from the frigid temperatures. “It was cold, frightening at points, and ended with me being soaked in freezing water.”

  “So …” Vaste said, “… about like you would expect?”

  The snow streamed down now, illuminated by the light from Vaste’s staff. Curatio, too, held a hand out and light flared from it as though he held a white fire in his palm. Just beyond where the boundary of the garden would be in Sanctuary stood a circle of tall stones, something strange and out of place about it. They stood at oblong lengths, some pointed and others flat, holding a center of smooth snow that was trampled by only a single set of footprints that Cyrus saw as he and the others crossed into the circle.

  “This is it,” Curatio said, stopping in the middle next to a footprint that was already becoming covered over by the falling snow. He brushed his shoulder, dislodging the flakes falling there as though it were of no concern to him, and looked up. “This is where Vidara held her court, and it would be where anyone looking to usurp her power would be.”

  “You will find no usurpers here, Curatio,” came a voice from behind a distant stone. It sounded oddly familiar, and a man-shaped figure emerged from behind one of the oblong spires of rock, the one with the set of snowy footprints leading up to it. His steps crunched faintly in the new-fallen snow, and he began to walk toward them.

  “Who are you?” Vaste asked, squinting into the dark. He lifted his staff to try and cast illumination at the figure making its way toward them, but it revealed only a dark cloak with a cowl over it.

  “One who knows your heart and mind all too well, troll,” came the reply.

  Cyrus chanced a look at Vara and saw her usually pale face flushed blood red, her sword hand shaking with the rage that she could barely contain. “Are you responsible for the disappearance of the Goddess, you loathsome—”

  “I am not, Shelas’akur,” came the voice in reply again, and Cyrus recognized it now. The figure crept closer and closer. “I am but a humble intermediary—a messenger if you will—here but to ward those who might step into this wayward realm and send them on their ways.” He stopped, and Cyrus could see the outline of the face beneath the cowl now, but the expression was masked in shadow. “I am a sentinel, here to warn—”

  “Why don’t you just cut out the protestations of your innocence,” Curatio said, annoyance cutting through his voice, “as it is doubtful we’ll believe them in any case, and get down to delivering whatever message you are here to give … Gatekeeper?”

  Chapter 17

  “You have no idea what you have stepped into,” the Gatekeeper said in a low drawl. He swept the cowl back off his face and he was obvious now, the same figure that Cyrus had been dealing with for over two years in the Realm of Purgatory.

  “I am going to guess we’ve stepped into an overly dramatic and self-righteous monologue,” Vaste said.

  “I would have said dung,” Vara added, her eyes never leaving the Gatekeeper and her sword still clenched in her hand.

  “The fate of gods and men hang in the balance from the events that have transpired in this place—” the Gatekeeper went on.

  “I hate it when I’m right,” Vaste said then shot Vara an apologetic look. “Well, I suppose we both were.”

  The Gatekeeper continued, acting as if he hadn’t heard either of them, snow falling around him but not seeming to touch him at all, “—this very realm falls into turmoil with the loss of its mistress.” He turned to look at Cyrus. “I believe you have seen the results of a realm in turmoil before?”

  Cyrus felt a chill beyond the cold, beyond the ice that had formed in his undergarments from his fall in the water. “Will something like what happened in the Realm of Death happen here?” He took a step closer to the smiling Gatekeeper. “Will we see something like the scourge afflict Arkaria because of Vidara’s disappearance?”

  Quiet hung in the air as the Gatekeeper smiled and looked at each of them one by one. “No witty repartee to that? No banal comments, petty insults? No references to stepping in excrement at the thought of another monstrous tide turned loose—”

  “The scourge was kind of like Mortus’s excrement, in a way,” Vaste said, his voice quiet, almost pensive. “So I could go that route—”

  “You insufferable trollish prick,” the Gatekeeper said, his cheeks now flushed. He made a motion and Curatio held up a hand as if to stay him. He looked through slitted eyes from Vaste to Curatio, and his smile returned, though only faintly. “Fine, then. We’ll just keep things pleasant.”

  “If so, then you’ll need to leave—” Vaste started, but Curatio held a hand out to him as well. The healer did not even turn to look at the troll, merely made a gesture, and Vaste fell silent, though he made his displeasure clear by sticking his tongue out at the Gatekeeper.

  “Go on,” Curatio said. “Say your piece.”

  “The Goddess is gone,” the Gatekeeper said, his smile now thin. “This brings consequences to the Realm of Life.” He waved a hand around the circle of stones that surrounded them. “Some of them are already apparent. The warmth of life is fading, and this land is experiencing a winter that will leave it a wasteland more frigid than your paladin’s heart and nethers,” he made a slight gesture at Vara. “More empty and inhospitable than the space betwixt your troll’s ears,” he said, and pointed to Vaste, “and more lifeless than your own kingdom will be in a thousand years,” he said, turning to Nyad. With each insult, his smile grew broader. He turned to Cyrus and said nothing, merely stared.

  After a moment, Cyrus spoke. “No insult for me?”

  “I need not insult you, Lord Davidon of Perdamun,” the Gatekeeper said without expression, his face reduced to an enigma once more, “as your own running of your life is insult enough. Your own choices insult you, make you a trollop among men, unsuitable for the attentions of the woman who you would have had if you’d shown just a little more restraint.” He shook his head slowly. “No, I need not insult you, for the purpose of insult is to cause pain, and your own decisions continue to reap more agony into your life than ever I could sow with my humble words.”

  “Is there anything else you would have us know about the disappearance of Vidara?” Curatio asked, squelching Cyrus’s reply before he could think of one to make.

  The Gatekeeper paused, and his face showed a hint of discomfort, pursed lips puckered. “I am the Hand of the Gods,” he said. “I am their servant, their steward and their herald.” He looked from Curatio to Cyrus. “I am possessed of more power than any adventurer, given a fraction of the godhood myself, power enough to kill an entire guild eighteen times over.”

  “Liar,” Vaste coughed.

  A searing look shot from the Gatekeeper to Vaste, but he spoke without acknowledging the insult. “With all my power, I still cannot rein in what has been done to this realm.” He stepped closer to Curatio. “What has been done … to this realm. This is no accident. Seeds have been sown here in the absence of the Goddess, seeds of … something.” He looked to Cyrus, and his expression quivered with a slight smirk turning up a corner of his mouth. “The thing about planting seeds is that eventually, someone will be along to harvest them.”

  “So someone did do this to the realm,” Curatio sa
id, taking in the darkness and snow that surrounded them. “Someone took her. And someone is steering the course of this place, the portals—”

  “I am steering the course of the portals,” the Gatekeeper said, his eyes wide and a slight anger evident. “It was I who locked your guild out so that you could brave this wilding realm on your own. So that you could test your mettle against the things that are starting to grow here, see if you were worthy of even the little knowledge I had to offer.” His sneer smoldered. “You are, for now.”

  “You really haven’t told us anything, of course,” Vaste said, and Curatio did not bother to even try to quiet him. “Just made vague allusions to something corrupting this realm while Vidara is gone and then told us you were using us as your personal playthings to deal with them.” Vaste took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Gatekeeper? Didn’t want to face the squirrels on your own? I mean, I can understand, I suppose, as they did leap up my robes and attempt to bite me on the—”

  “I have no difficulty with the squirrels,” the Gatekeeper said coldly.

  “I would say not, being as you are probably hung like they are and thus they’d have to jump very high indeed to inflict any pain on you—”

  “Enough,” the Gatekeeper said and turned back in the direction he had come from. A faint glow appeared, something ovoid and orange, barely visible through the growing blizzard. “This portal will lead you back to the tunnels under Reikonos. Begone with your frivolity.” The Gatekeeper lifted his cowl and covered his head once more, beginning a trek through the snow toward one of the stone pillars surrounding them.

  “Gatekeeper!” Curatio called and waited for the Hand of the Gods to turn around. “Why not just dissolve the barrier that prevents us from teleporting out of the Realm of Life?”

  The Gatekeeper’s face was almost unreadable as the storm around them worsened, the winds picking up into a howl louder than any druid’s spell. “Alas,” he said at last, “I cannot do this thing. It is beyond my power.” He adjusted his cowl, letting it fall lower over his eyes. “But you already knew that, did you not … Curatio?”

  “I suspected,” Curatio said, and Cyrus could see a glimmer in his eye. “Thank you for confirming it.”

  The Gatekeeper said no more, merely turned away from them again and resumed his course, trudging through the rising snow. He waved them away, toward the faint glow in the distance.

  “Is that the portal?” Vaste asked, starting toward it. “Should we actually head in the direction he’s suggesting? Because I have my doubts about trusting—”

  “It is the portal,” Curatio said, turning toward it and beginning to walk. He shouted back over his shoulder to be heard over the rising fury of the blizzard that had swept down upon them. “And we should by all means go through it, unless you wish to spend the rest of your days as a frozen statue here in this inhospitable hell!” Cyrus could tell he was shouting, but his words were all but lost to the winds.

  They moved forward at a steady, hurried pace. The snow was deepening, and Nyad was buried up to her thighs with every step as they passed beyond the border of the stones. The frigid chill was taking its toll on Cyrus, and he could feel the ice crystals forming in his nose hairs and on the days of stubble he carried on his upper lip.

  Vaste was leading the way now, his long strides unhampered by the snows ensnaring the rest of them. Vara leapt high into the air and landed just in front of the portal. Cyrus could see her outline against the orange glow, her silhouette reminding him of the first time they’d met, in fire caves with a similar cast.

  “Come on!” Curatio shouted as he cut through the snow a few dozen paces behind Vaste. The troll reached the portal next and waited beside Vara, holding position.

  “I … I can’t …” Nyad whispered, her teeth chattering. They were still twenty feet from the portal at least, and the joints of Cyrus’s armor were beginning to freeze.

  “Come on,” Cyrus said. He picked her up in his arms, maintaining his grip on Praelior. He felt her slump in his grasp, go limp under her thin robes, and he took care to make certain her staff did not fall from her hand as he tried to cross the last few feet to the portal.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been colder. What is happening to this place? Cyrus could feel ice creeping up in chunks around the joints of his armor, breaking apart with every movement. His skin burned from where the water had frozen solid to it under his metal plating, as well as in his boots. He had little feeling in his hands, and the rushing of the wind around him blotted out any other noise that might be made by the others as he took long, lurching steps to follow Curatio up to the portal.

  Vara, Vaste and Curatio were just black shadows against the orange of the portal’s glow, nearly blotted out by the furious snowfall. It was coming down sideways, and Cyrus’s eyes ached as he forced them to stay open. He chanced a glance at Nyad. Her skin was white as the snow, her lips blue like the seas when he had been on the ship only days earlier. Or was it weeks? A lifetime ago, perhaps, when I felt that warm?

  Cyrus stumbled up to the portal and saw Curatio blur and disappear within its bounds, his figure distorting as he vanished. He felt strong arms at his back—Vara’s gauntlet landed on one of his shoulders and Vaste’s on the other. They pushed and he fell through. He could feel their touch as he watched Nyad’s face twist with the energy of the portal. The freezing, aching sensation held to his skin, though, as the world spiraled around him and finally flashed white.

  Chapter 18

  Cyrus fell upon the hard ground, the scent of musty air surrounded him. There was a sudden pressure as Vara’s armor hit his then rolled off, and then Vaste landed on him and failed to move. There was a loud clink of metal boots and other footsteps around him, and shouting began to fill the air.

  “Get off!” Cyrus grunted.

  “Oh, simmer down,” Vaste said, his voice weak but audible over the sound of the Army of Sanctuary. Cyrus looked up to see them all there, in formation, watching. The cold still permeated Cyrus, though the air was lovely and warm compared to what he’d just come out of. “I’m a little frozen here. Give me a moment to thaw.”

  Cyrus strained and pushed himself up, throwing Vaste off his back. “You’re crushing Nyad!” He stared down at the wizard, whose lips were still blue, her hair and eyebrows crusted with ice. “Is everyone all right?” Cyrus looked around.

  “Let me take a look at her.” Arydni was in front of him, kneeling next to Nyad, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore her full robes, and he saw them collect dust from the chamber floor as she knelt. “Goddess, she’s frozen!” Arydni ran a hand over Nyad’s face then looked up at Cyrus. “And you—what happened!”

  “The Gatekeeper,” Vara said, drawing Cyrus’s gaze to where she now stood behind him. Her armor was dripping, the ice that had accumulated upon it beginning to melt. Cyrus watched as droplets of water traced their way down her breastplate to drip off the hard edges of her armor. “He happened.”

  “It was not his fault,” Curatio said, and Cyrus realized suddenly that the healer was standing in front of him but off a little ways, his white robes sodden with melting snow. “He is quite correct, that realm is being affected by other forces.”

  “Yes, the hedgehogs and chipmunks convinced me of that,” Vaste said, and Cyrus looked back to see the troll get to his feet. His green face was a lighter shade, the usually dark green skin tone closer to a yellow. “The question is, what is causing it?”

  Curatio shook his head. “Honestly, any one of the gods possesses the power to do what has been done there.”

  Arydni looked around at the healer, and her eyes narrowed. “But would any of the gods in particular do this?”

  Curatio stared back at her, pondering, and then looked away. “I do not know. Mortus would have been the most likely candidate, but … keep in mind that a god abducting a god is not a common thing. Vidara is hardly helpless girl. The Goddess is a fierce fighter when provoked, more than able to defend herself.” Curatio sh
ook his head. “I have a hard time imagining any of the gods removing her from her realm forcibly, even if they were of a mind to.”

  “Yet she is gone,” Arydni said, and she turned her focus back on Nyad. “How would you explain that?”

  “I cannot,” Curatio said and turned away, his robes leaving streaked water trails on the dusty ground.

  “General,” Odellan said, stepping forth and jarring Cyrus out of his focus on the conversation, his sword and shield in hand. “Are we going into the portal, sir?”

  Cyrus thought about it for a second. “No, our excursion is done.”

  Odellan nodded and pulled the winged helm of the Termina Guard off his head. His expression was tentative, mouth a thin line. “Permission to send the army back to Sanctuary? I hate to have us linger here if there’s no action to be had.”

  Cyrus nodded. “So ordered.” He glanced at Arydni. “Would you mind seeing to her care?” He gestured to Nyad.

  “She’ll be fine,” Arydni said, looking up from the wizard’s side. “She needs the warmth of a hearth for a time, to have the ice and water dried from her, and some good hot tea, I think.”

  Cyrus looked back to Vaste then Vara. “Are you both all right?”

  “My genitals have retracted inside me from the cold,” Vaste said. “They’re so far up there I think I probably look like you at this point.” Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right,” Vaste said, “forgot who I was talking to. Yours are always deployed nowadays.”

  Cyrus felt the slight burn on his cheeks as he looked to Vara. Her eyes were fixed in a thousand-yard gaze. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Her eyelids fluttered and she seemed to come back to herself. “I shall be fine.”

  Cyrus turned around to look at Curatio. “And you—”

  “I’m fine,” Curatio said, waving him off. “Though I must return to Sanctuary. I have a considerable number of matters to attend to, as well as some research to undertake when time permits.”